


Rise Up To Meet It

by slyfoxcub



Series: Constellations [2]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Alternate Universe - Younger!Primarchs, Canon-Typical Violence, Constantine has Feelings, Gen, Horus Origin Story, Tiny Horus, V Legion Has a Bad Day, V Legion is confused, artwork included
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 14:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21649852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyfoxcub/pseuds/slyfoxcub
Summary: Preparations for the Great Crusade are still underway, but the V Legion have been sent on ahead to do reconnaissance. One of the planets in their path is a gang-riddled husk of a dead mining planet called Cthonia...
Relationships: Emperor of Mankind & Constantine Valdor, The Emperor of Mankind & Horus
Series: Constellations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1549192
Comments: 20
Kudos: 109





	1. Involvement

**Author's Note:**

> The Terran Fifth Legion was recruited from the area of Iceland and Greenland, hence the gratuitous Icelandic swear words.

The sliver of a battlebarge hung against the corroded glow of the planet recorded only as Cthonia, like a splinter wedged into the atmosphere.

“Could it at least be colonised as a port or trading hub?” A Sergeant spoke up, only for Captain Dure to shake his head. 

“It’s a veritable nest of serpents we would be better off destroying. Have the astropath send the message back to the Expeditionary Fleets and withdraw the reconnaissance teams from the surface of the planet.”

“Brother-Captain, sir, I just got in touch with Recon 4 and they have contact with one of the gangs...no, two of them. They just interrupted a turf war, it seems.”

“Patch me through.” 

A minute of hushed muttering from a Tech-Priest and Captain Dure was given the go-ahead.   
“Recon 4, this is Captain Dure. Withdraw without instigating anything and return to the rendezvous point. Fire warning shots at any pursuit if you have to but don’t get involved.”

The reply was fuzzy and popped with static, but it was clear enough. “Negative, Brother-Captain.”

Dure gritted his teeth. “Repeat that, Recon 4, why are you not withdrawing?”

“Sorry sir, we’re engaging. Both sides are targeting civilians in the surrounding slum. I just saw a ganger potshot a little boy’s head off and laugh. Permission to go on the offensive.”

“Andskotinn,” Dure swore quietly. “Alright, permission granted, but you don’t stay. You subdue and leave, nothing else.”

“My thanks, Brother-Captain.” The muted barks of a bolter and a groan of steel girders echoed through the vox-link before the transmission was ended.

“They are disobeying orders,” the Sergeant said. It was carefully voiced to be a statement, not a rebuke at his apparent laxity.

  
“I said that the serpents should be destroyed, not that the planet should be cleansed.” Just contemplating such an extreme measure left a sour taste in Captain Dure’s mouth.    
“Those are humans down there, our long-lost kin. The ones we were made to defend. Our most sacred duty; how could I keep them from fulfilling it?”

* * *

On the planet below, Brother-Sergeant Markis put a bolt shell between the eyes of the child-murdering scum, the headless body dropping limply from a piece of rusty scaffolding and crushing another ganger. “Recon 4, we are clear, clear, clear for offensive. Pick your targets,” he stated calmly over the squad vox-channel. 

“Acknowledged.” Three other voices chorused.

At that, gangers started dropping with fist-sized holes blown through their barely-armoured bodies, aimed with transhuman precision. Their own primitive laspistols barely even singe the grey paint on the Astartes’ armour.

“Sergeant,” Brother Sevis’ voice crackled. “I’ve found an alleyway behind one of the hab-blocks, seems to be secure, I’m directing all civilians from this zone through-contact, contact, contact, new player coming in fast over the rooftops, possible hostile. Can’t make out any details at this- *crunch*”    
A hiss of static followed. The thunder of one of the derelict habs collapsing in the near distance offered an answer.

“Sevis! Copy, Sevis!” Markis yelled into the channel, not even pausing in crushing the head of a legless ganger with his armoured boot.

“Still got his life-signs, Brother-Sergeant,” Apothecary Simar answered. “Stable but parts of his armour aren’t responding.” 

“It was a trap,” Markis growled. “But where’s the bastard that set it?”

The last echoes of firing bolters faded away even as the question left his mouth, a low, chill breeze stirring the dust about their feet. Civilians huddled in doorways, clutching ragged cloaks around themselves as if they would shield them like armour plate. Hundreds of wide, frightened eyes tracked the hulking grey forms of the Astartes, muttering uncertainly to each other in the glottal, feral gothic of the native language.

The dead lay cooling in the street, the blood turning the dust to mud.

“What does it matter?” Brother Jan growled. “Let us recover Sevis and leave, as we were ordered. There will be much rubble to dig through to reach him.”

“He speaks the truth, Brother-Sergeant,” Simar added.

Markis sighed; there really was no point in launching an investigation. “Agreed. But keep your guard up. Simar, you take point and lead us to Sevis. I’ll bring up the rear.”

“As you command, Brother-Sergeant,” Simar affirmed, before turning and striding off towards one of the run-down hab-blocks.

Markis, realising what was about to happen, suddenly called out at the Apothecary. “Wait, brother!”

At seeing one of the strange giants who had massacred a few scores of men in front of them, storming in their direction with seemingly no intention of stopping and an extremely large gun in hand, the civilians somewhat predictably screamed in terror and ran. They poured out of doorways and windows like rats fleeing a sinking ship, not even stopping to gather possessions or help children and aged; if someone fell, they were left behind to stagger to their feet and escape on their own.

Simar halted in confusion, and even though it was silent, his squadmates could practically hear him blinking. “Why do they run? I do not mean them any harm.”

“It must be that ‘transhuman dread’ thing,” Jan reassured him. “They’re only human, after all, and these ones have never seen Astartes.”

Markis exhaled through his nose, but said nothing.

A few door lintels were smashed upon entry and a few were already damaged from where Sevis had passed through already, not that they looked out of place in the dilapidated surroundings.   
Despite the obvious squalor, there was evidence of care and pride in some of the decor. Delicate patterns painted onto the rockcrete walls, a crude board game on the hearthrug, furs of the native lupine population expertly cured and serving as bedrolls, scrimshawed bones from the same placed over the mantel as works of art.

It was defiant in its piteousness. How very human.

Apothecary Simar led them through corridors where Sevis had evidently herded whom he could, to what he had assumed was safe passage from the danger. Then they abruptly stopped at an open doorway, which led out into an alley which only stretched a few yards before being choked by shattered debris.

“Well, he’s somewhere in there,” Simar announced. “We should proceed carefully, so we do not cause additional shifting and further harm to Sevis.”

“Brother-Sergeant?” Jan, who had stepped to the side to watch for the unaccounted-for hostile, suddenly pulled a dead ganger from behind a slab of masonry. “This one had his oesophagus and trachea crushed, along with a sharp thin implement to the heart. Contusion imprints on the neck are human, but...Apothecary, human children are not capable of the strength necessary to perform such a feat with one hand, correct?”

‘No’, Markis opened his mouth to say, but before a sound could leave his lips, a movement caught his eye. He unloaded a bolter shell into it without even thinking.

A piece of rag tied to a stone fluttered to the ground, torn apart. And the distant patter of bare feet running over the rooftops.

Dropping the corpse, Jan scooped up the makeshift projectile. “Some sort of faction sigil, Sergeant. What I can make out, at least.”

Daubed in white paint was the remnants of a wolf-headed snake with a star on it’s brow.

“Did we just get involved in something, Brother-Sergeant?” Simar asked, having gone back to pushing aside a slab of rockcrete.

Markis could only groan. “_Andskotinn_. Brother-Captain Dure is going to have my _hide_.”


	2. Assessment

Every so often, Sevis would groan softly from where he was lying prone on the floor of the Stormbird. A sheared-off piece of steel girder still stood embedded in his chest and the armour covering his legs was dented and scraped right down to the sparking and grinding servos beneath.   
Apothecary Simar was bent over him, a cable from his narthecium gauntlet plugged into a port just below the lip of the collar, monitoring internal healing carefully for the right moment when the piece of metal could be removed with the least damage.

Brother-Sergeant Markis was standing off to one side, conversing with Brother-Captain Dure over a private vox-channel. Nothing could be heard from him, save for the buzzing clicks of the transmission, but those accustomed to reading body language when encased in Power Armour would be able to tell that he was cowed, cringing now and again. No doubt the Captain was expressing his displeasure at the turn of events.

With both of his Battle-Brothers fully occupied, only Jan noticed the transport’s irate Enginseer storm past him with twin mechadendrites bristling. The pilot and copilot trailed uncertainly after the Adept, nonetheless with lasguns cradled in their arms and alarm scrawled across their features. 

“Situation report,” Jan asked, the growl of his vox-grill making all three of them slide to a stop.

The Enginseer only chittered something about ‘meatbag heathens’, but the humans saluted on reflex before the pilot answered. “Lord Astartes sir, several of the natives are attempting to dismantle parts of the Stormbird; on our way to enact defensive measures, sir.”

Jan felt a swell of disbelief. It was obvious that the populous was strapped for resources, but to attack an Astartes vessel was a new depth of stupidity and desperation. But if they were to engage… “I shall accompany you, as I require information. Arrest one for interrogation.”

“Understood, lord.”

Surprisingly, the scavengers did not immediately run when the loading ramp lowered. Maybe it was because they hadn’t expected those disembarking to be human. Still, they froze, makeshift tools in hand, until the pilot and copilot sent warning shots into the ground at their feet. Even then, only most of them ran, and the reason for their sudden boldness was clear.

Wolves. It took two people to hold the collar of each one, and both beasts were straining even that with their rearing and snarling at the air. At a sharp word from one of the handlers, the animals were released, lunging forward with dripping jaws and ragged coats that spoke of ill-treatment and disease.

Jan took his time, leisurely putting a bolter round through the roof of each open maw.

Then the fleeing began en masse. The Enginseer, buzzing and warbling one of the Mechanicus’ strange hymns, was seizing and throwing the scavengers with his mechadendrites, gleefully crushing arms and legs in the process. Never mind how many crushed bones resulted from him battering them against the ground and buildings like ragdolls.

A select few Cthonians, most notably the younger ones of the group, had chosen to surrender and cower before the two crewmen. No doubt feeling marginally safer with them, than the red-robed mechanical monster or the armoured juggernaut with a very big gun.

“Three prisoners, lord Astartes,” the pilot saluted.

Jan took a moment to evaluate her. Terran, born within the last few years of the Unification he would guess, not that he was an Apothecary. Experienced and trustworthy, evidenced by her place on a Recon mission. Very average looking with brown hair, dark eyes and pale brown skin.   
If Jan recalled correctly, younger humans were inclined to listen to older women, even strange ones. Maybe this would be more productive... 

He held out the scrap of cloth with the sigil on it. “Pilot. Ask them if they know what this image means. They may speak to a human more readily than I.”

She took it carefully, as if it were a relic. “Of-of course, lord, certainly. But I cannot speak their language, I’m afraid.”   
Ah. That was indeed an obstacle.

“Brother!” Markis strode down the ramp, taking in the destruction before switching to the private vox-link. “What happened here?”

“They thought to steal parts of the Stormbird from under our very feet. I ordered for some to be taken captive, to gather information,” Jan explained. “However, there is the issue of the language barrier.”

“I see. Good work Jan,” Markis nodded. Pausing in thought, the Sergeant addressed the returning Enginseer. “Enginseer Tharax-98-Delta, do you have the ability to translate the language of this planet?”

“Negative, Sergeant,” the Adept chittered. “I tend to the Machine Spirits, that is all. But I can enquire of the Adepts upon the _Wind Strider_ in orbit, if that would please.”

“It would.”

Accordingly, the Adept nodded, and a few red lights on the cable-forested throat began to blink. Transhuman ears picked up the whine of servos on the spine adjusting to compensate for the Enginseer’s drift of attention. It took only half a minute.

“Magos Fenwick-113 had already begun compiling a translation matrix from Servo-skulls sent with the other Recon Teams. With additional servitors for data-processing, a Noosphere package will be available within two minutes, Praise the Omnissiah.”

* * *

Elija felt his heart beating double-time as the monsters got closer. He cowered a bit more; presenting as a non-threat had worked before, maybe it would work now?   
‘Just take the bits and run,’ Shepet had said. ‘You’ve got the wolves for protection.’ Fat lot of good the mangy beasts had been, with their brains blown out.   
But Shepet was the Boss so Elija had done what he was told, but he wasn’t an idiot. He wanted to live to eat another day, even if it was gruel instead of the soy-green they’d been planning to trade the parts for. And if living meant grovelling and licking boot-leather, then so be it. Seemed that Jep and Amik had been raised proper the same way. Pride didn’t feed you, after all.

Not that any of these monsters looked like they had boots. But the two humans did. But the humans didn’t appear to be in charge, so the option was moot.

The woman, no, the lady stepped forward. Women who were important were ladies and got respect because they were your betters, not your friends. She said something in a weird language that sounded almost-right, then the… metal-creature clicked a few times and-

“You are under arrest by the (Kingdom) of Man for willful destruction of property, assault of an (Kingdom) (void-travel organisation) operative and obstruction of an (Masterer of Stars) investigation.”

It talked?! Huh; okay, it(he?) talked his language. Some of it sounded a bit off, but it sounded like Shepet had really bitten off more than they could swallow. But hey, it would understand him if he pleaded mercy, right? Maybe the lady and her human friend in the same fancy clothes could feel sorry for him; being a kid got you out of a lot of pain if you played it right.

“I’m sorry lady, we all are. It’s just that we need stuff to trade for food and we’re all so hungry! We don’t want trouble, we got the message, we just want to be on our way and never bother you lot again, ever.”

The metal-man clicked again, then rattled off strange words that was presumably what he just said.

The Big Armour with a gold eagle on the back of his hand said something with a growl that turned Elija’s bones to soup.

The lady sounded agreeing. 

The metal-man shrieked angrily, but the Big Armour said something that sounded like ‘shut up’ but polite.

Metal-man went back to buzzing sulkily. 

The second Big Armour who’d shot the wolves asked a question to the lady.

The lady asked a question to Elija, handing over a tattered rag with massive bullet holes blown in it. It had white paint on it. Even before the translation came through, he felt his heart drop to his guts.

“What do you know about this?”

Where had they gotten this? It was suicide to go into that place alone. But...the Big Armours and the metal-man were no push-overs. If they were looking to get rid of that...kid, then that could mean new opportunities for everyone. One of the big ones had been killed by that damn creature dropping a tower on him, so maybe the rest wanted revenge? Getting impaled by a steel beam was a nasty way to go, after all.

“It started about a year ago, maybe more,” Elija started slowly, letting the metal-man do his thing. “Something fell out the sky and landed in one of the ancient strip-mine pits. Whole place is unstable, can’t get to it by tunnel or overground, so nobody went to look for it.    
But since then, something unnatural-like has been keeping folks away from that place. This is the sign, right here, that started showing up on the edges of its territory. Looks like a kid but isn’t a kid. They say it’s one of the old spirits that woke up somehow, ‘cause it ain’t human. Too fast, too strong, and real cunning. Necks _bitten_ right through, I’m telling you. Someone who saw it said that at night it turns into a wolf with metal for a hide, but in daylight it’s a kid. One guy got off a shot at it, but he said it just got right back up. It’s bad news, no-one messes with that thing.”

* * *

Brother-Sergeant Markis nearly tripped over the bloodied metal girder lying on the floor of the Stormbird.

“Sevis will need proper surgery to remove some of the deeper metal fragments,” Apothecary Simar announced. “But he is stable, and healing. Not fit for immediate return to service, though; one fragment is lodged next to his primary heart and his armour needs extensive repair.”

“Good,” Markis nodded. “We have a lead on the hostile, myself and Jan are heading out. Guard the ship until we return.”


	3. Misjudgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bickering. In the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this 'verse, Astartes know about Chaos. But it's very, very, very censored and watered down. Basically: 'If you see any of these things, run away very fast, secure a perimeter, inform the Sisters of Silence and they'll tell you if you're to bombard it from orbit.'

The inhabitants were much more genial when the Astartes returned to the slum; their fear had been tempered by reflection and perhaps sympathy from seeing the armoured giants dragging their injured fellow from the rubble with a spike through his chest.  
It didn’t mean that they weren’t wary though.   
  


Children were pulled away when they gawk too long and a wide berth is given, but at least there was no reckless stampede, Sergeant Markis was relieved. Even when he and Jan retraced their route through the hallways, the humans only froze in fear until they pass. But a few were bolder than the rest, trailing at a distance but always constantly there. Markis could tell that Jan was uncomfortable despite their relative harmlessness, finding slight amusement in his brother’s discomfort. Jan, ever the cautious.

By the time they reach the debris-choked alley, bright eyes watched them with avid curiosity. They were ignored, as the two Astartes clambered up the uneven surface.

It was slow and ungainly going. 

As nimble as Astartes can be, that did not mean they were not extremely heavy. The treacherous footing was an additional factor, shale slipping and sliding beneath their tread.

Eventually though, they gained the peak of the unstable mountain. Fortunately, this border was one of the tallest things within several kilometres, so it offered an excellent vantage point. The yawning mouth of the abandoned mine in the near distance gaped ominously like a gut-shot wound, the edges ragged where earth had slipped.

“What do you suppose is waiting for us down there?” Jan asked.

“More traps, dangerous terrain, local wildlife,” Markis listed noncommittally. “Our target.”

“Any ideas on what it might be?”   
  


Brother-Captain Dure had sent an entire dossier of possibilities to the Stormbird’s cogitator, but only Markis, as Sergeant, had been authorised to read it, due to the sensitive information contained within.

“Human-derivative mutant; very likely. Standard take-down, high potential of multiple targets.  
Gene-abomination; likely. Conduct observations before engaging, potential of multiple targets.   
Xenos-breed, Eldar; unlikely. Conduct observations and report back to command.   
Any unclassified Xenos-breed; unlikely. Conduct observations, collect specimen discreetly if reasonably possible, report back to command and await decontamination.   
Restricted. Temporary Classification: Archnemesis.”  
Markis paused in uncertainty. “Extremely unlikely but not impossible. There’s a list of signs...if confirmed, flee immediate area and do not engage unless attacked. Quarantine Priority Alpha-Alpha-1. Transmit details immediately to...Terran High Command. Await...Adeptus Custodes and Anathema Psykana forces.”

The silence dragged it’s feet.

“Well, let’s hope it’s not the last one,” Markis jested, hoping to lighten the mood. Jan didn’t make a sound.

They descended as equally as carefully, and started an advance. Many more of the same wolf-headed snakes were daubed on protruding surfaces, abandoned machinery and the like, serving as an eerie reminder that this being had intelligence and pride.

Fortunately, some of the structure of the original mining business remained; there was the remnants of a road and bays for the decaying excavation machines. It was as they were passing by one of these that Jan spoke up. 

“Brother-Sergeant. Tracks.”

Markis crouched down beside Jan, removing his helm to examine more fully the faint indentations. It wasn’t just footprints; it was a well-worn path, made by only one being, leading off to the giant rockcrete maintenance pens. “Well spotted, Brother. And some look recent.”

“What about the tunnels?”

A shake of the head. “If it has all this uncontested territory, why would it stay in cramped, dangerous and unsanitary conditions? No, we shall forget the mineshaft for now; first we examine the vehicle bays.”

“Enclosed areas; high possibility of traps or ambush,” Jan noted. “But I’m not picking up any lifesigns in the vicinity, Sergeant.”

“Me neither, Jan,” Markis agreed, both of them rising to their feet. “Let’s go hunting.”

* * *

Every so often, a sharp breeze from the cracks in the walls whistled through rusting steel gears with an eerie whine. It was almost pitch black save for lancing shafts of light from those same cracks, and the sound twisted and glanced oddly off the walls and surfaces.

The two Astartes trod as softly as possible, but there was no muffling the sheer weight of their steps on a cracked rockcrete floor.

“Still no life-signs,” Jan contributed as they stalked. “Just flickers from small native vermin.”

Markis noticed something sticking up from a part of machinery. Taking a few steps towards it, it became clearer. A candle, sealed to the metal by its own melted and reset wax. In fact, it would be more accurate to say it was a pile of candles; the new piled on top of dead ones, the entire frozen cascade dotted with multiple wicks. And some of it seemed to come from further up. Following the trail, Markis raised his gaze, judging the angles and positions of platforms and rails along the sides of the great mechanical beast. 

A tattered piece of cloth serving as a screen for the corroded exterior of the command bridge, fluttered in the wind.

“Up there. We’ve found a nest, it seems.”

“Brother-Sergeant, I suggest we lay in wait for it to return, then strike,” Jan suggested. It was a pragmatic and tactically sound idea, but something inside of Markis urged him to look closer. Whatever this thing was, there should be more of it’s kind, but every sign pointed towards it being a lone entity. Strange, indeed.

“I’m going to take a closer look up there, Jan. You keep watch.”

“But Sergeant-!”

“Brother!” Markis snapped. Valued kin and comrade Jan might be, but that was no excuse to question his orders so. “Stay. Put. I’ll keep the vox open and if anything, it will make the trap more effective; flank it from the direction it least expects.”

Jan nodded, reluctantly conceding the point. “As you will. But those handholds won’t bear your weight.”

“A machine this big will have maintenance hallways accessible from the exterior. From one of those, I should be able to make my way to the bridge.”

“Don’t get stuck.”

Markis voxed a brief growl at the smart remark, before hefting his bolter and walking away, leaving Jan alone in the viscous darkness.   
  


The sun was setting, shafts of light turning amber and crawling slowly up the walls.

The light was almost gone when Brother-Sergeant Markis slid aside a door with a sharp, grinding squeal, gauntleted fingers denting the edge of the slab of metal as he pushed.

“Brother Jan, I’m in the nest. Any sightings yet?”

“Scans still read negative for humanoids. What’s in there, anyway?”

“Hold on.” Transhuman eyes scanned the surroundings, noting everything. ‘Nest’ was an apt word. Probably every book in the vicinity was stacked in one corner, regardless of over half being operating manuals and accounting logs, and most of them half-dust. Plenty of furs, mirroring the dwellings Markis had passed through before. In fact, it looked like a spirited attempt to...recreate one. Even down to the painting on the walls. But instead of careful patterns, they were more like childish scrawls and pictures and copying of letters.  
And a prominent depiction of...a family.

Drawn in clumsy stick figurines, universal to small children everywhere, it seemed, was a family. Human, as far as Markis could guess, but there was plenty of room for error. One large human, radiating lines from the smiling face, holding stick-hands with a smiling child, surrounded by twenty other children.

A child.

This really was a child they were hunting. A lonely one, at that.

Markis had been a child, once. So had Jan, Sevis, Simar; all Astartes. 

Lonely children were desperate.

“Jan, we’re going for capture, not kill. Whatever it is, it’s a child. A frightened child. And it’s lonely.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Sergeant,” Jan stated flatly. “Or _ do _ take it the wrong way, what do I care, but you are a thrice-damned bleeding heart.”

“I’ve got two hearts, one for bleeding and one for everything else!” Markis snapped back. “Capture, not kill, is that understood? Injury permitted, of course, but not kill-” the vox crackled as Jan let out a sound it couldn’t interpret.

A beat.

“I just saw it, but scanners aren’t- Hey!” The sharp report of a bolter from down below. “Damn. Thought I got it.”

“Jan…,” Markis growled in warning.

“I was trying to hamstring it; get it in a leg, that’s all. But it’s trailing a cloak of some sort, so I misjudged the line from center mass. And why didn’t my scans pick it up?”

“Where’s it headed?” Markis snapped urgently, pacing the perimeter of the command bridge and peering through gaps out into the almost tangible darkness. “Towards me?”

“Unconfirmed, but likely.”

“Right.”

On a hunch, Markis removed his helm once more, letting his ears function unfiltered by the audials.

The soft ‘pat’ of bare feet sticking to metal. Soft, rapid breathing. Scratch of metal on metal. Swish of fur.

Thirty metres to his plane-level front-left.

He looked up, and locked eyes with the child creeping along the arm of the great machine.

It..._ he _; the child was male, was staring agape at his, Markis’, bare face. One arm was half-raised, pushing back a hood made from the head of a skinned wolf away from a pale, rounded face topped by wayward dark fluff of hair. Dark eyes were wide, pupils large in the darkness but the whites visible from shock. He gasped something vaguely accusatory in Cthonic, that Markis did not speak.

Then Markis heard Jan over the vox.

“Got it.”

“Hold!” Markis bellowed, forgetting that his helm was not on, and the child jerked back in surprise.

Jerked back, right into the trajectory of the bolter round.


	4. Worriment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergeant Markis has a very bad day.
> 
> Also, gore.

A spray of crimson fractaled in the air as the round bored through flesh.

A shrill cry of pain tore itself from the child’s mouth as he tottered, slipping in his own lifeblood from the torn hole in his side, and fell into the darkness.

There were crashes and smacks of a body against metal and wet sliding sounds as the boy bounced down the side of the machine, flailing limply, before finally smashing to a stop at the base.

Markis followed, replacing his helm and exiting straight through one of the apertures of the nest, clambering, half-jumping down and cratering metal as he went.

“Still breathing.” Jan stood over the still form. “He moved at the last second, I-”

“It can’t be helped,” Markis reassured. “I know I asked for capture, but...I can come to terms with this.”

Jan holstered his bolter and knelt, brushing aside the rapidly dampening wolfskin to reveal metal plates crudely fastened to a vest. He wrenched one off, prompting a weak moan, and showed Markis. “Adamantium alloy, layered. That’s why my scans didn’t pick it up; they aren’t built for penetrating this sort of armour.”

“Where in the name of the Emperor did this child get it from, though?” Markis asked. “This is recently forged, not decayed. There’s no Imperial presence on this planet, that’s been confirmed. Mars hasn’t been here for millennia, either, because there are no resources left to exploit.”

“Why don’t we ask the boy? He’s not dead yet.” A quiet whimper confirmed the statement and made Markis start in surprise.

The Pioneer Fleets didn’t use the new exploding rounds because there weren’t enough stockpiled when they departed. A small mercy for the boy lying at his feet. But the shell had still pierced the side of the abdomen, torn the intestine and muscle and most likely shattered at least one rib, probably puncturing a lung as a result, and never mind the damage to the shoulder blade and muscles there upon exiting. Massive blood loss, septic shock from the intestinal rupture and whatever broken bones and internal bruising the fall had caused should mean a rapidly cooling corpse right now.

Kneeling, Markis pulled aside the blood-soaked clothing. The pained growl was far stronger than the previous sounds but he ignored it, wiping the congealed blood aside roughly with gauntleted fingers.

The wound was open, yes, but only the torn surface layers were still bleeding sluggishly. Muscles were knitting together before his eyes and the faint wheeze in the breathing was slowly smoothing out. 

Moreover, there were no signs of the mutations that Markis had suspected; the boy was cleanly human. The one odd feature was that there was no knot from an umbilical cord, only a small sliver of keloid scar tissue on the smooth skin.

Before he could ponder some more, however, the boy started struggling; writhing beneath his gauntlet and kicking out, the blows landing ineffectually against Markis’ thigh armour and tasset. But he felt them; there was considerable strength behind it. The wound started to seep fresh blood from the violent wrenching, so Markis employed his other hand to hold the child in place and still. It was not appreciated, as the furiously frightened boy snarled and spat angry words that would probably be very insulting if he knew what they were.

But it was this very struggling that slipped aside the bloodied wolfskin, smearing red across white lettering on a piece of the grey-green metal.

XVI

High Gothic. Sixteen.

It was a hunch, a wild thought that prompted Markis to bend down his head and focus both his audials and ears.

_ thu-thu-thu-thump...thu-thu-thu-thump...thu-thu-thu-thump… _

Two hearts.

Rapid healing.

Incredible intelligence.

Impossible strength.

_ Just like an Astartes. _

And the small belly-scar like he had been gene-forged, the Imperial adamantium, the damned  _ drawing on the walls _ , the number…

‘ _ “Something fell out of the sky…’” _ ’

It was impossible. Not here, not in this place! But…

Every Astartes knew. Knew about the Primarchs, their gene-fathers. Countless hours were spent talking, hoping, theorizing about the Primarchs of each Legion; what they would be like, what they would specialize in, would they be kind or stern, artistic or utilitarian, if they would still let the Legions meet together and train in mixed-Legion companies?   
They all had an aching hole in their lives, something missing that even the Emperor, nor the Custodes, were able to fill. That only the Primarchs could.

The Primarchs that had been stolen from them.

And now one was lying bleeding under Markis’ hands.

They had shot a  _ Primarch _ .

They had  _ shot _ a Primarch.

_ They _ had shot a Primarch.

The next second, Markis had the child cradled in his arms and was running full-tilt back to the Thunderhawk, screaming semi-incoherently down the vox for Apothecary Simar all the way.

* * *

“Brother-Captain Dure, I’ve just received a vox-ping from Brother-Sergeant Markis of Recon 4, rated Alpha-Priority.”

“Put him on,” Dure gave the go-ahead, suddenly interested. What had Sergeant Markis found, to warrant such a high rating?”

_“Alert Terra, inform His Majesty!”_ Markis was breathless, panicked. Impossible. Astartes did not panic, and Markis was stable and mild-mannered in temperament.

“Get a hold of yourself, Brother!” Dure barked. “What’s happened? Is it the Archnemesis?”

_ “A Primarch!” _

A dead silence fell over the bridge, humans and Tech-Priests included. A Primarch...truly?

“Are you certain? Are you absolutely sure?” Captain Dure ground out, forcing skepticism in spite of the absolute joy in his hearts. “What has alarmed you so?”

  
  


_ “Definitely, I’m certain, I’m sure! Apothecary Simar confirmed it...his...hi-his injuries healed before my eyes.” _   
  


Dure’s hearts missed a beat. “What.”

_ “I-I...Jan says he deserves all the blame, but if I hadn’t shouted, if I’d said something sooner, I...the bolter round would never have hit him in the side. Brother-Captain, I humbly beg that myself and Jan be arrested and held for judgement. We will gladly accept whatever punishment we receive, even execution.” _

The arm of the chair crumpled in Dure’s grip. “The Primarch is healed, though?”

_ “Yes, Captain. Simar took...the liberty of sedating him in order that he might not aggravate the setting of the bones, and asks pardon for this. Permission to return to the Wind Strider and deliver both the Primarch and Brother Sevis to the Apothecarium?” _

“Permission granted, Sergeant. Apothecary Simar is forgiven. As requested, you and Brother Jan will be held until such time that your guilt can be determined. The Astropaths and Brother-Psykers will send word to Terra immediately. Captain Dure out.”

The transmission was cut, and Dure let himself slump back in his chair. “Send word to Terra, His Majesty must be made aware as soon as possible; a Primarch has been found.”


	5. Ajustment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cuteness ensues, now with art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon that Custodes don't have Apothecaries as such, but Apothecaries and Techmarines(kinda) rolled into one. 
> 
> Introducing Charys: Scary spider birb.

The ship translated in from Warp-jump, not approaching from sub-light. A battlebarge, of the same make as the _ Wind Strider _ , if not necessarily from the same shipyard. But the detailing was gold over the grey-red of the Mechanicus, unlike the uniform gunmetal blue-grey of the Pioneer Fleet, and it’s presence caused the cogitators on the _ Wind Strider _’s bridge to light up in a riot of alerts.

The ship transponder codes identified it as the _ Shining Blade _, registered as belonging to the Adeptus Custodes, with the modifier of it being on a mission from His Majesty Himself.

“Brother-Captain, incoming live-feed from the _ Shining Blade _.”

“Put it on the main screen,” Dure said, getting out of his seat to stand at attention.

Within the next few seconds the feed connected, and the entire bridge crew was treated to the sight of the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes himself.  
Captain Dure bowed, hand over hearts. It was not uncommon for members of the Emperor’s Legion to visit and conduct exercises with the Legions of the Adeptus Astartes, but it was practically unheard of for the Captain-General to do the same. It was rare indeed for the man to be away from His Majesty’s side for long periods of time. But then again, this was a rare occasion in and of itself.   
“Lord Valdor, sir. An honour. We were not expecting your arrival so promptly.”

“Captain Dure. A pleasure. We were able to utilize the time-neutral properties of the Warp to expedite our passage, thanks in no small part to His Majesty.”

Dure was somewhat surprised by the cordial tone. But he could think on that later.

“I see. From information gathered, the Primarch is of the Sixteenth Legion, the Emperor’s Wolves. An established timeline formed from local intelligence estimates the arrival of the gestation capsule upon the planet little more than a local year ago, roughly one Terran year.” He swallowed; they hadn’t been able to fit the next part into the astropathic message.  
“The Primarch did acquired injuries upon discovery. The Astartes involved were under the impression that they were hunting a dangerous entity that had been terrorising the local population, and acted with force before realising the truth of the matter.”

“I see.” The words hung like a sword waiting to drop. “An Apothecary will accompany myself when I board your ship. And I would know the names of the Astartes in question.”

A war raged inside Captain Dure’s mind. On one hand, punishment was certainly due. On the other, it was not entirely deserved. “Sergeant Valk Markis and Tactical Marine Forstinn Jan, Lord Valdor. Upon delivering the Primarch to an Apothecary, they turned themselves in to be detained and judged for their actions.” Markis in particular did not deserve this. “They truly believed that they were dealing with a non-human threat to human lives, and no one expected to find a Primarch this close to Terra.”

“Myself and an Apothecary will teleport into your main hangar bay in five minutes. Have those two present.” The reply was curt, and then the feed was cut.

* * *

“Any further information for me, Captain-General?”

“You are the Arch-Genetor, Charys,” Constantine retorted. “You are the designated expert, young one.”

The tall helm inclined slightly, the voice from the protruding muzzle a deep, sonorous rumble. “Indeed. But, as you say, I am young. I was inducted into the Hekatonkheire only after the Scattering of the Primarchs and have little information on their development. But you were present during their gestation.”

“I know only as much as you, Charys.”

“Hn.” The multiple lenses inside the intricately embossed helmet flickered and clicked audibly. “As you will, Captain-General.”

The lights of the teleportarium flared brighter than the sun, consuming them both, before dying back down and disappearing in motes of blue-green light.

Captain Dure stood before them in the main hangar of the _ Wind Strider _, two helmetless and weaponless Astartes flanking him.

“Welcome to the _ Wind Strider _, Lord Valdor.”

“My thanks, Captain. This is Arch-Genetor Charys, attendant Apothecary to the _ Shining Blade _.”

The eyes of the two Astartes visibly widened, and Constantine couldn’t blame them, not really. It was a subject of much speculation if the Adeptus Custodes even had Apothecaries, and even if the confirmation wasn’t worth such a reaction, Charys’ appearance certainly was. The pale blue cloak hid a lot, but it couldn’t conceal every specialized mechadendrite and manipulator-limb. And Charys was an Arch-Genetor, so there were many of them.  
The rather large power spear also caught the eye, despite being slung behind one shoulder.

“Take me to the Apothecarium.” 

Charys was also overdue for another seminar on _ tact _, Constantine noted mentally.

“Captain Dure, I would be grateful if you would guide Charys. I shall deal with these two here; it will not take long.”

A nod of acquiescence, and both Dure and Charys departed, the Custodes looming on the footsteps of the much smaller Astartes.

Satisfied that both were out of earshot, Constantine turned back to Markis and Jan, the two promptly kneeling and bowing their heads in submission as his gaze landed upon them.

"Raise your heads, young ones," he urged them. "I have heard the testimony of your Captain, but I have not heard everything. Tell me what happened, and leave out no detail."

Slowly, haltingly, they began. 

Time passed as Constantine interrogated them, judging their reactions carefully.

If the Primarch had died, or been permanently injured, their heads would be rolling on the floor as blood price. 

But.

No such thing had happened, and Constantine had full confidence in Charys' skills. The Custodes of the Hekatonkheire took great pride in their arts of genetics and healing, and Charys would not allow himself to fail. The Primarch would be safe in the Arch-Genetor's many hands.

At least, that was what he thought, until an alert blared over his vox.

"Captain-General. The Primarch is awake, but is considerably distressed. I request assistance."

"You are more than capable, Charys."

"Indeed. But I have already lost one of my limbs in the initial struggle and any sedative I might manage to administer would be metabolized in this state of agitation. He may respond better to your presence."

Constantine could only sigh.I request assistance.”

Honestly; children was _Ra’s_ area of expertise.

“Request acknowledged. On my way.” Shutting off the private channel, Constantine turned back to the two Astartes. “A situation has arisen. Lead me to the Apothecarium. _ Now _.”

* * *

“Ra never hears of this,” Charys ground out, the shifting of his many appendages under his cloak betraying his agitation.

In the corner of the room, the blue-flame of a small torch hummed.

“The fact that you thought a torch was necessary for a medical examination, or that he _ cut it off and beat you with it. _”

“...He was not properly searched for concealed weaponry, the knife in the boot-”

“_ Charys _.”

“I use it for sterilizing my instruments and manipulators. There was no reason for the Primarch to react in such a violent manner.”

A seminar on _ empathy _ was also overdue.

By the time this exchange had taken place, a small head had popped up from behind the examination table where it’s owner had been hiding. The torn end of a mechadendrite mounted with the aforementioned torch, was clenched tightly in one small hand.

Constantine reached up and removed his helmet, decidedly ignoring the curious stares of the two Astartes and various serfs clustered in the corridor behind him. His only interest lay in the suddenly wide eyes peering at him from across the Apothecarium. “Child...it is good to meet you again.” He smiled. “Your Father has missed you very much.”

“Fa...Fardrr?” A small voice rang out. “Cruu arrak tre? Stri treku chra stragisch citre tre Fardrr rru?”

Constantine let the barrage of questions wash over him, as he sat cross-legged on the Apothecarium floor. “I do not speak your tongue, Child, but I can guess. I know your Father very well, and I have come to take you home. We did not mean to scare you, nor to hurt you.”

The torch hurtled through the air, caught by a pincer-mechadendrite before it could reach it’s intended target.

“Charys, leave us please.”

The snarling helm tilted in contemplation. “As you will.” 

Then the blue-cloaked mass of gold-plating and secondary arms turned and swept from the room, herding the gawkers as he went. The automatic door thunked shut behind them, and the Apothecarium was left in silence, apart from soft breathing.

“Leave us please.” The voice was high and childish, but the enunciation was clear despite it only being the boy’s first time speaking Low Gothic and having only heard the phrase once. He learned fast; that sentence had prompted Charys to leave, so the meaning was catalogued if not necessarily the intricacies of language structure.

“No,” Constantine retorted simply, not budging an inch. He was admittedly curious about what reaction he would get. Closing his eyes and feigning disinterest, he waited. He very carefully did not react to the tiny presence edging closer towards him from one side, at least, until it tried to make a grab for his Guardian Spear.

“No!” He snapped in warning, grabbing it first. Only for small hands to grab onto his wrist and make him freeze. They were so fragile, so small...he didn’t trust himself not to break them between the flexing joints of his gauntlets. 

The last time he’d held a human child had been Ra, and that was how many years ago now…?

Ra was his brother now, no longer a child.

And this child was his brother too. Those hands would be the size of his, one day.

Fearless from his lack of response, the hands traced the intricate engravings in the auramite, picking at the forms of laurels and swirling stars. The arms raised as they followed the patterns, the movement revealing what was left of the bolter wound.

It was only a ragged star of whitish skin now, closed forever but a permanent mark on the boy’s body.

“Are you not afraid of me, Child?” The boy had gone from hostile to overtly curious abnormally fast, considering that Constantine was quite sure that Primarchs were not indoctrinated to discard fear as Astartes were.

“No!” Came the cheerful retort. Overly curious and very tactile; oh no, there were two Ras. What had he done to deserve this again? Well, he had done an awful lot of murdering during the Unification Wars, but that had been for a good cause.

Stars, the boy looked so much like his father when he got an idea; the glittering dark eyes, the decidedly impish grin, that same damned wrinkle of the nose. Already he had a gut feeling that this child would drive him to distraction the same way that his lord did to Malcador. 

Twenty of them? The Custodes would be run absolutely ragged.

He was looking forward to every second of it.

Carefully, oh-so carefully, he brought across his other hand and rested it on dark hair, idly tracing the line of the skull and jawbone.

A full-body shiver, and he pulled away, checking for any damage he might have inadvertently caused. But instead there was a squeal of laughter and an eager child clambering into his lap with arms outstretched.  
“Arrgan! Tre!”

“Eh?”

Quickly, he wrapped a hand around the child, to steady him as he scrabbled in an attempt to climb up Constantine’s breastplate. But the next second, the boy has squirmed from the loose grip, to stand on his arm and use it as a platform to lean his arms on Constantine’s gorget and inspect his face.

“What are you doing?”

Instead of answering though, the child giggled and ran his hands over Constantine’s jawline, seemingly searching for something in particular. Indeed, as fingertips dug into a nerve cluster just under his ear, he felt his shoulder twitch and an odd sensation crawled down his spine to tug at his lungs.

“Hey!” He hadn’t known he was still ticklish; that was something to remember. “Stop that, okay? I don’t want to drop you.”

“Hey! Gruth hrist tre!”

“We really need to make a start on teaching you Gothic, Chil- careful there…”   
For the boy had pulled himself up, using his grip on Constantine’s gorget, and now sat within the wide rim of his power armour, next to his head. The somewhat matted and torn wolfskin provided an adequate barrier against the cold metal and the child snuggled down against Constantine’s scalp, despite the soft noises of half-formed protest from his new nest.

“You are unusually trusting, under the circumstances,” Constantine muttered, more to himself than anything. “Ah well. Hold on to me tight, little brother.” He got to his feet, gently, so as not to unseat his charge. “We are not home quite yet.”


	6. Acknowledgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We leave the Fifth Legion finally.

That he hadn't passed judgement on the two Astartes had completely slipped Constantine's mind, until he exited the Apothecarium and they both knelt before him. Suddenly taken to task, his mind whirled, dissecting and evaluating various forms of punishment but always discarding. Honestly? He couldn’t really muster up any true anger towards them, now that all his worry regarding the young Primarch’s well-being had been quelled. At this moment, ferrying the child safely back to his Father’s arms was top priority, not two Astartes trailing around after him like kicked puppies.

Hmm…

An idea coalesced in his mind. 

Yes, that seemed...quite suitable.

His helm’s internal systems allowed him to summarize the order and send it in a compressed data-burst addressed to Captain Dure, directly, thanks to a few Custodes-level universal clearance codes. There; done.

“Return to your quarters; I have relayed my judgement to Captain Dure for him to oversee. I must take my leave, and return with all due haste to Terra, you understand.”

Thankfully, they merely uttered a ‘“Yes, Lord Valdor.”’ and retreated until Constantine and his charge were left alone. Well, alone save the usual background fauna of a couple of servitors, a handful of techpriests and a few stunned and gawking menials.   
Well, with one secondary objective crossed off his list, he began walking, making his way back down to the main hangar bay.

Whether it was out of respect or fear, at this moment he cared not, his pathway was automatically evacuated, all personnel ducking into alcoves or other corridors. This meant that the elevator was mercifully left completely vacant and gave him space and time to center himself.

Astartes. For all that they had the charm the Thunders had severely lacked, they were...intense. Psycho-indoctrination or gene-characteristics or some environmental factor, maybe a combination, meant that their emotions ran strong and deep and were excised through action and reaction.

Custodes were made to think. To learn. To reflect the thoughts of their lord. 

Astartes could be exhausting.

‘Maybe that would change,’ Constantine mused, briefly tuning into the feeling of fur scratching against his neck and a bony kneecap wedged behind his ear. The child was warm.

Primarchs were not Astartes, for all that there was a connection between them.

Primarchs were made to develop. To change and diverge, act on what they learned.

Would it be that the Primarchs would imprint their own ideas and ideals onto their Legions? Temper them, refine them?

Sixteenth Legion, the ones who had already earned the nickname of Emperor's Wolves from their ferocity during the Lunar Reclamation, and more currently, the retaking of the Jupiter Civilizations. 

Constantine brushed aside a piece of wolfskin that was becoming irritating; 'What a coincidence, to be sure.'

That aside, it would be quite amusing to see how the Wolves reacted to their rather tiny Primarch. Even the mental images caused a smile to tug at his lips.

The elevator ground to a halt, easing him out of his train of thought, opening into the antechambers that lead into the hangar.

Charys was waiting, experimentally flexing his already repaired cauterizing-mechadendrite. Captain Dure stood just to the side of the Arch-Genetor, fascinated and seemingly equally unnerved by the host of skeletal mechanical arms flexing and working beneath the blue cloak and resurfacing from it periodically.   
Charys was also apparently foregoing speaking for the time being, as Constantine merely received status and shorthand pings to the internal cogitators of his armour. He was currently not wearing his helmet due to his...ah, passenger, and so couldn’t read them on its display, but he could definitely hazard a guess as to what they were.

So, he turned to the Captain.

“We shall be departing now. I trust that my instructions meet with your own approval?”

“Yes, Lord Valdor. It is somewhat unorthodox, but it should be effective without compromising resources.” He bowed. “Thank you for showing mercy.”

“It was not mercy,” Constantine stated.“Merely what was right. We return to Terra now; hunt well among the stars, Captain Kornelius Dure.”

With a whine of blinding light, the two Custodes and their charge were engulfed in a flash of colours, which dissipated to leave only empty space.

* * *

“I can’t believe he’s still fast asleep,” Constantine stated; asked, really. “Charys?”

“Hn.” A scanner-mechadendrite emerged from its brethren. “Remove him from your neck, or the readings will be confused.”

Reaching up, Constantine carefully felt for a firm hold, and finally lifted down his charge to hold him in his hands. The boy squirmed a little in his sleep, eyelids flickering, before becoming still once more.

The scanner did its work in but a moment, and Charys’ cogitators whirred.

“The regeneration of the wound required much energy,” he diagnosed. “Also, I doubt he had many fat reserves to begin with. He will require food; protein, fat and sugars to build up his strength and weight. Deep into a full REM sleep cycle as he is, to wake him now would be both unwise and counterproductive. Alert me when he wakes naturally, and I shall send a serf with the recommended foodstuffs.”

“I’m to take him?”

Feeling more than seeing the replying glare, which could probably curdle milk at sixty paces, Constantine hastily amended his query. “You are the Apothecary; should you not keep watch over him in, say, the Apothecarium?”

“The Primarch has already expressed his displeasure at my presence, and his preference to yours,” was Charys’ retort. “Far be it from us to cause him unnecessary stress. Your current lodgings were furnished in deference to your status and so should be suitably comfortable; unlike the rest of the ship, which has so far remained decorated to more austere Martian sensibilities. I-”

A hand on his pauldron halted the flow of words. “Charys, everything will be fine,” Constantine reassured. “You ramble when you worry, you know? I will keep you updated as you asked, and I will take care of the boy.”

A couple of mechadendrites relaxed, betraying the relief that armour could not quite convey. “Thank you, Captain-General. I apologize for my lack of focus.”

“Why should you apologize for being human?” Constantine shook his head in self-reproach, a wry grin on his face. “Ah, just listen to me, being all sage and the like. Let me return to my quarters before the boy wakes. But if you could programme that Cthonic translation package into a servitor, or preferably my armour’s internal cogitator, I would be grateful.”

“I recommend the armour so as not to cause fright with the first sight of a servitor. The Machine Spirit within will be taxed by the required input analysis, however. This can only be a temporary measure.”

Constantine carefully did not say anything about the usage of the Mechanicus' 'Machine Spirit' phrasing, and merely nodded. "I concur. Thank you, Charys."

Thus ending the conversation, he made his way to his assigned quarters, Primarch in arms.

* * *

+Glory to the Omnissiah+

+Machine Spirits Awakened+

+Designation: Shining Blade+

+Data Input+   
+Mission: Classified+

+Priority: Absolute

+Navigator Responsive+

+Data Input+   
+Destination: Imperial Terra+

+Data Output+

+Sub-light Achieved+

+Gellar Fields Online+

+Status: Active+

+Capacity: 100%+

+Alert: Warp Transition In Progress+

+Data Output+

+Warp Transition Successful+

+Navigator Responsive+

+Status: All Systems Functioning+

+Capacity: 96%+

+Data Output+

+Destination: Imperial Terra+

+Estimated Travel Time: (01) Day Terran Standard+

+Glory to the Omnissiah+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This relatively short chapter took a while to come out because I have been doing some writing ahead, mainly for Angron. I am deeply disgusted with myself now. His story won't be up for a while yet, but it's probably going to be M-rated.
> 
> I need Tiny!Horus Fluff.


	7. Attachment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even more Tiny!Horus Fluff.  
Also, implied accidental cannibalism?

Horus sighed in protest at the touch of cold metal as he began to wake, but he fully determined to keep sleeping for as long as possible. Only for his memories to come back in a rush. Jolted awake, he sprang up, and promptly bashed the top of his head against something cold and hard.

“Hey! Cautious!”

The voice was very familiar, but last time, the words had been wrong. He looked up blearily, meeting the dark brown eyes looking down at him in kind. Golden armour shone in bright light, dazzling his eyes and making him look away. “You?” He murmured.

He received a smile. “Name Constantine it is,” a gold-plated hand tapped a similarly-adorned chest. “You name is what?”

His kin’s name was Constantine? And the words were messed up and thickly accented, but at least they could talk now…

“I am Horus, kin-of-mine.” A curl of warmth settled in his stomach; he had kin now, now he had someone to address as such! He’d always had a feeling they were out there, but now it was real! Though...this room looked rather small and didn’t feel lived in at all? Where were the History Scripts on the walls, the places for shoes and games and storing meat?  
“Where are we?”

He received a frown in answer, a soft, urgent babble of wrong-words and a jumbled stream of Cthonic from some device on the armour’s throat.

_ “Bzzt...journey...ship...nothing...void...star...moon...bzzt...We are between the stars,” _ it pronounced finally. _ “We travel home.” _

Struck silent, Horus absentmindedly put a hand to the smooth metal of the egg he’d hatched from, the plates repurposed into an armoured vest. Home...to the star he’d come from? The star they’d all come from?

Another frown. “Within pain are you?” 

What?

Oh, Constantine had mistaken his movement for a sign that his wound was hurting. Not really, but his chest and shoulder were aching rather badly now that he was moving about. “Little bit.” He made to shrug, but winced instead; that had been a mistake.  
Immediately, Constantine started muttering worriedly, cradling Horus closer in his giant hands. The armour upon which was carved with stars and trailing fire and wing-spread birds. He let the anxious voice wash over him as he studied them, closer than the cursory curiosity he’d granted them upon first introduction. Was this Constantine’s History Script? Did they write it upon armour, not walls? What did the carvings mean?

Who was Constantine?

_ “Please do not climb on me again.” _ Another machine-fed sentence, instead of the broken, learned words. Well, if Constantine didn't want Horus to climb his armour, he shouldn't have made it so climb-able. Or tickled him; that was an invitation to be tickled back. Or made his collar such a convenient nest; was that how his people carried their young normally?

_ "Food is coming." _

Ah, that was good; he was hungry and had not eaten in several days. Pit-rats were scrawny but they were meat, but he had been too busy the past few days to go hunting. Even the thought of a bowl of mushroom gruel was making his mouth water. 

As if agreeing with him, his stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly.

Constantine stifled a snicker, but the gentle hand that ran over Horus' dark hair showed that it was meant in good nature, and not mockery. 

He turned serious quickly though.

_ "Why did you break the tower? Why hurt civilians? Why hurt the (Masterer of Stars)?" _

Was a Masterer of Stars the smaller grey...oh no. Were they his kind as well? Maybe not kin, but... something. And he'd killed one of them; he'd seen the bloodied metal spike impaling him all the way through as they pulled him from the rubble. Rubble that Horus was responsible for.

No wonder they'd tracked him down and shot him.

" 'M sorry," he mumbled, suddenly ashamed to look Constantine in the eye. "Didn't mean to...wanted to destroy the staging outpost in the tower."

_ "Staging outpost? What were they attacking?" _

Horus shook his head. "For invading the Pit. My territory. To kill me."

Constantine bristled, as if personally offended. _ "Did you kill them all?" _ His tone implied that he would take great pleasure in hunting down any survivors.

"Yeah. Cooked off their ammo store too."

"Good," Constantine growled.

Horus swallowed nervously. "You- you're not mad about the Masterer of Stars?"

_ "You were injured, of course I was. Had you not healed, I would have killed them for it." _

He shook his head again. “No, not that. I...killed one of them. When the tower fell. Are you mad?”

For a moment, there was a heavy silence, save for the whir of distant machinery and the muted blare of a far-off tannoy system.

_ “No. I am not. Because you are far more precious to me. Precious to all of us; even to those (Masterers of Stars) whose brother you harmed. But, it is good that you feel regret. Even if you did not kill that one.” _

At that, Horus started. “But...but impaled!? It went right through!” Such an injury was a surprisingly fast and inevitable death sentence.

_ “Bigger, and sturdier than normal humans,” _ Constantine soothed. _ “And we have good medical tools.” _ Perhaps still seeing Horus’ concern, he continued, _ “None of them blame you for anything. It never occurred to them. You may not be theirs, but you are still a (First and Greatest); it is their nature to respect you." _

How could that be? Respect was earned, not born. Horus had done nothing to warrant it, had done the opposite, in fact. 

A knock at the door.

Constantine stood abruptly. Horus clung tighter to his kin as the floor seemed to suddenly twist and drop away.

“Enter!”

The door _ hissed _, and slid back into one side of it’s frame. But before Horus could gawp, a normal-sized man scurried through into the room.

He bore a covered tray, and set it down on a small table, before pausing to look up at Constantine questioningly.

Constantine rumbled what sounded like a thanks and a dismissal. Oh, was this the food? Horus gave a little wave which he hoped would be taken as gratitude.

The man’s face lit up with an awestruck grin, and briefly dipped his head in a bow before hurrying out. The door hissed shut.

Horus caught Constantine shooting him a quizzical glance, only for it to disappear with the shake of a head.

"_ No matter. Here, _ " they sat again, bringing the table to level. The cover of the tray was taken off and- Oh, the _ smell! _

That didn't smell like pit-rat or even wolf. And it was _ hot _. It had been a very long time since he’d eaten a hot meal.

Horus felt his mouth water, but still looked to Constantine. He was the oldest; shouldn’t he be eating first?

“_ Eat, _” came the urging. So, he did.

Cooked meat wasn’t like raw meat, which made him see things. Like when he’d killed and eaten the young wolf his fur cloak was made from; he’d learned how to hunt pit-rats from that.

From the humans whose throats he’d bitten and swallowed, he’d learned some words, how to make traps and cure an animal skin.   
  


Despite being cooked, he could taste that whatever beast this had been, it had been well-fed and kept in a pen. He couldn’t get much from that but who cared when it tasted this good?

And was that bread? Real, proper bread? Like the only hundred loaves baked a year in the big city from the secret wheat-farms of the big bosses, that people would literally fight to the death for because _ real bread _. Like in the legends of the Golden Age. 

Pale yellow waxy stuff that looked like tallow but melted sweet, sweet _ sweet _ on his tongue like nothing he’d ever tasted.

Was that really water in that jug; the clear stuff? It didn’t even have any bits in it, or have the taste of rust and acid that well-water or what filtered through the gutters did.

He ate all of it.  
He would have left a token piece for Constantine, but the older man had already missed his chance and Horus would bet that he’d never gone _ this _ hungry before, and he _ was _ the injured one here.

Except that now his stomach kind of hurt and he hadn’t known that eating could even do that. 

_ "Hungry?" _ Came the blithe comment, as Horus leaned back into Constantine's legs.

"Good food," he shrugged in reply, trying to disguise his anticipation. If that was what he'd be allowed to eat when he was home, he could forgive the whole 'getting shot' thing completely. "What was the meat?"

"Grox, _ I believe. _"

"Huh, grox." He tried the word out. It was odd, but not bad; sounded a little bit like Cthonic, actually. “And the yellow sweet paste?”

“Honey, _ it’s from the hives of an insect called a _ bee.”

So many different things to learn...to relearn differently. But it was only right that he learn the language of his kin...and his Father.  
Constantine was using his armour to talk; speaking his own words and the machine repeating it in words that Horus knew. Though he had obviously learned some words before Horus woke, he was relying on his armour for the longer talking.   
Horus hadn’t really listened to the differences between the languages at all, to his shame, and only had those few phrases he’d learned when the golden bird-man had scared him.

And, there were other things he wanted to know...

“Teach me more words; tell me about my Father. Please,” he amended hurriedly, nearly forgetting that Constantine was his elder.

But he only smiled. “_Where do you want me to start?_”


	8. Fulfillment

+Glory to the Omnissiah+

+Navigator Responsive+

Out of nowhere, the ship shuddered all the way through to the bridge, as if the very vessel was repulsed by something. A siren started to blare, bathing the deck in a flaring red hue. Cogitators began to scroll warning messages.

The Astropath started gibbering wildly, agitatedly scratching bloody welts into the dry skin of his bald head, twisting his blind gaze this way and that.

“Navigator!” The Captain snapped into his vox. “Navigator Achelieux, what’s happening?” 

The answering scream nearly deafened him.

+Alert+   
+Navigator Vital Signs: 85%+

+Navigator Vital Signs: 81%...70%...63%...+Error+

+Error+

“Captain!” One of the officers yelled. “The clock...look at the clock!”

+Data Output+

+Estimated Travel Time: (01) Day Terran Standard+

+Estimated Travel Time: (00.3) Day Terran Standard…(00.0) Day Terran…+Error+

+Error+

+Error+

+(-34.5) Day…(-97.75) Day…+

The Captain felt his throat run dry. The numbers were spinning, spiralling down at an ever faster rate. Time was...the ship was falling into the past. But how? The Navigator would have alerted everyone of any Warp currents and-

He was interrupted by the Navigator’s screaming again, though this time there were words.   
_ “No no nono nononono let go letgo letgoletgo…’!” _

+Navigator Vital Signs: +Error+...92%...-7% +Error+

+(-100,0547) Day Terran Standard+

+(-125,689) Day Terran Standard+

The whirling numbers continued their count.

Oh, Omnissiah be good, they were going to die. He didn’t know how, but they were all going to die. Every man, woman and...they’d failed. The Primarch would never reach Terra. 

+Gellar Field: 97%+   
+Gellar Field: 96%+

+Gellar Field: 96%+

+Gellar Field: 97%+

“Gellar Field...we’re holding sir,” an Ensign practically sobbed. “Holding...holding...I can’t…’”

“Hold fast!” A deep, vox-distorted voice boomed, as one of the Adeptus Custodes strode onto the bridge. Despite the mildly uncanny appearance of the armour and arms, the golden form radiated a sense of purpose, duty, ferocity in the face of overwhelming odds. It brought heart back to the Bridge crew, all of them standing just a little bit straighter.

“Forgive me,” the warrior rumbled as he stepped up beside the Command Throne and plugged a mechadendrite into it.   
  


Somehow, the Captain didn’t think the apology was entirely meant for the crew. “My lord, what’s going on? How is this possible?”

“Quite simple. We have been seized, Gellar Field and all, and are being towed.”

He spluttered. “Towed?  _ Towed?! _ The Warp is nought but balefire and dead memories; there is nothing in it to tow us…’” The lack of an answer, merely an emanating impression of regret, made him trail off.  _ Oh _ .

+Data Input+ 

+Emergency Disengage Warp Jump+

+Negative+

+Data Input+

+Override: Adeptus Custodes Arch-Genetor Charys Enki

+Override Confirmed+

The Captain felt hope, true hope, enter his heart. Maybe, maybe they actually would...

+Data Input+

+Emergency Disengage Warp Jump+

+Negative+

+Negative+

+Error+

Hope died in the flashing red letters.

+(-769,999,775,436,728) Day Terran Standard+

+(Ė̵͔̲̮̤͔͇̳̑̍̒̎̕ȓ̴̺́̽͝͝r̸̛͎̙̖̱̝͓͈͊̀̐͌͛͊o̸̯̪̗̳̹͋̓̇͜͝r̵̘̈̎͌) Day Terran Standard+

+Error+

+Error+

The clock was broken. It vomited sparks.

+Alert+

+Navigator Chamber Breach+

The screaming had stopped long ago, the Captain realised, as resounding clangs came from the Navigator’s sealed chamber. Each one was accompanied with a bulge of metal smashed outwards from the inside.

“The Navigator is lost.” The Custodian’s statement confirmed the horror. “Prepare to repel boarders.”

“WHAT IN THE OMNISSIAH IS HAPPENING?!” He finally screamed, wracked with pain as a burst of feedback from whatever the Custodes was doing lashed through the Command Throne and into his body. His lungs stuttered and he tasted blood in his mouth.

+Navigator Vital Signs: +Error+Error+Error+Ė̵͔̲̮̤͔͇̳̑̍̒̎̕ȓ̴̺́̽͝͝r̸̛͎̙̖̱̝͓͈͊̀̐͌͛͊o̸̯̪̗̳̹͋̓̇͜͝r̵̘̈̎͌+

+Data Input+

+Mission: Classified+

+Priority: Absolute+

+Data Input+

+Override: Adeptus Custodes Arch-Genetor Charys Enki

+Sealing Deck: Bridge+

The Navigator’s Chamber split apart like a ripe fruit and…

_"__The Bridge is sealed, Captain-General. I trust in the Machine Spirit of the ship; it will hold-.”_   
A sharp burst of static, and everything went silent.

“Constantine? Wha's going on?” Small hands tugged on his cloak, dark eyes looking up at him. Only curiosity. No fear.   
Just absolute trust that Constantine would keep them safe.

He would get Horus back to Terra, however long it took. 

“The ship is under attack. I will defend you.” The memory of standing in that broken, empty room, his lord looking upon it bereft and lonely, made him grit his teeth. “They will not have you.”

“Who?”

_"The mere knowledge of their existence draws their attention.”’_

Constantine held his tongue. He would not put that burden on a child. But. He had to say something.

“The ones that stole you from your father in the first place.” 

There. That was enough, wasn’t it?

The lights flickered. Taunting him.

(oOo)

"Ra."

"My lord?" He met glowing golden eyes, as gravity  _ flexed _ .

"Brace yourself."

There were no surfaces to mag-lock his feet to. So he knelt, crouched low beside a pillar and-

Light screamed, sound burned and confusion tasted tart and sweet on his tongue. Then reality slipped back together and he could think, despite the eddies of concussive force ebbing and flowing over the floor with glimmers of immaterial light.

Ra didn’t know how Constantine did this.

The air was choking thick and staticky, a subsonic rumble winding through his organs. How did Constantine ever stand being close to their lord when he exerted his power?

Oh Terra, was his Custodian armour, the auramite, actually  _ blackening _ ?

“Ra. Withdraw.”

The voice was strained, non-euclidean echoes seeping through. How much was he reigning in…?

Ra obeyed. With great alacrity.

Even at a speed that to human eyes would have rendered him little more than a red-gold streak, he barely made it to the chamber door before the shockwave shoved him bodily through it and slammed the door behind him.

Once he’d recovered his composure, he noticed that half his cloak was gone. Heavy armour-weave thread, sheared off and cauterised. And the door seemed to have fused with it’s frame. Well, fused didn’t quite cover it. The metals had been softened and swirled together like putty and then pulled and moulded into a fractal splash of eyes and sharp-edged feathers. 

Frakking Warp.

Having come to that conclusion, Ra then started sending out orders to redirect all traffic to other parts of the Palace, cancel all His meetings for the rest of the day, and have someone bring up a melta-charge cutter for when the crisis is over and the Emperor wants to leave the room.

‘You’d better be okay, Constantine’, he thought to himself.

(oOo)

+Data Input+

+User Not Found+

+User…+

+User…+

+Error+

+Ė̵͔̲̮̤͔͇̳̑̍̒̎̕ȓ̴̺́̽͝͝r̸̛͎̙̖̱̝͓͈͊̀̐͌͛͊o̸̯̪̗̳̹͋̓̇͜͝r̵̘̈̎͌+

+G̷̢̞̯̞̓ĺ̶͉̽͑͝õ̵̡r̵̰̓̂̊̚y̶̡̰̹͉͝ ̸̭̤̮͑͒t̷͚͒͛͑o̶͙̲̓ ̵̧͕̦̮͂̄̾̚t̵͎̀̑͝h̵͉͉̓͂̇e̷̱̎̂̄͠ ̶̖̏̆͌Ȍ̶̪͚̫̰̽m̷͚̈́n̵̞̋͌ĩ̸̥̚͝s̶̞̈́͝s̷̳͙̺̮̄̀͘i̵̧̼̗̥͒̓ạ̸̲̋͐h̵̺̋̇+

+Ọ̴̔̆m̸̨̨̲̬̜̻͑͆̕n̴̡̟͚̻͕͈̱̅̓̃ì̵̮̆̐̕͝͝ŝ̶̘̮̫͙̄̏s̵̠̻͐̓i̸͓̥͓̭͗͊͛̈́͛͗a̴̧̖̹͚̣̻͆͛͝h̸͉̣̀̑+

+Ỏ̵̢͇͔͇̝̘̻̬̩̽̽̋̓̇͑̀̐̚͘͝m̷̛͉̬̹̅̅̿̆̋̇́̍͝ņ̶͕͇̫̭̘̜̘̦̭͔̄̑͜͜͜ĩ̵͉̭͐̓̄̒̉̓̈́̊̐̾̆̚s̵͔̺͕̝̬̩̱̥̮̩̳͒̐̓̈́̾̐ṣ̷̦̗͚̞̰̺̳͖̬̳̻̫͍̈́̀̈̄̉͛̐̉͌̚͝͠i̶̧̨̛̦̳̬͇̠̤̟̟̫͚̯̅͐́̈́͂̍̿̇͘͝a̶͈̿̎̌͂ḣ̵̩͒̄̀̓̒̒͠͝+

  
  


+Ǫ̸̧̨̥̯͍̖̯͚̱̖̟͓̭̬̳̼̬̺̼̘̫̘̠̦͔̙͓͔̰͚̙͎͇̻̱̆̌̀̈́̿̂̔̊̔̎̓̓̂̓̒̉́̂͘͘̚͜͜͜͝ͅM̸͖̾͋Ņ̸͖͍͎̰̗̣̪͖͓̝̝̰͖͕̬̺̖̱̱̭̫̒̿͐͘ͅĮ̵̨̛̼̮̜̪̪̣̝̤̺̺͉͔͕͔͙̗̱̥̤̤̪̣̮͆͂̔̓̇̈́̈̄̋̋̇̀̓̒͌̅̆̋̋̏̿̿͐̐̓̏̉͊̈͘͘͠S̷̠̮͔̣̪̳̭̝͔̫̜̻̺̣̠̳̭̜̩̝͉̞̱̖̬͉͎̟̝̠̯̻̭̝̳̼̬͓̄̇͋̌̿̑̇͒̇̏̈́̂̈́̐̓̇́͑̅̇̽̎̈̕̕̚͜͜͜ͅS̵̛͇̰̒̇́̉̈͛̏̈́͛̈̆̈́͋͊̅͑̑̆̈́̋͌̑̑̽̋͌̆̍̒͘͘̚̚͠͝͠I̵̧̡̬̹͇͎̼̜̺̟͙̳̲̯̹̿̽̃͛̂͑̓̂̈́̽͌͊̔̅̂̍̏͒̌̈́̓̀̚͘Ā̵̝̜͜͝H̵̨͔̦̩̤̘̖̺̗̺͍̭̮͑̾̂͛̈́̀̋̕̚+

  
  
  
  
  
  


(oOo)

Above Terra, reality blossomed and unfurled with the scent of an eagle’s cry and the taste of magenta and the sight of bloody-minded hatred wrapped in a skein of lightning.  
Nothing came out.

There was only a bubbling red howl and a sweet tang of prairie wildfire, but then a void emerged.

A spheroid of black, the light of foreign stars and a red-and-gold ship trapped unmoving within. A golden glow encased the field, plucking it from the seething meat like a hummingbird tearing out the throat of a bear.

It’s prey tackled from it’s grasp, the gold burning it like fire on blood-stained sea-foam, and starving in the way a man atop a mountain gasps for oxygen, the rift could only retreat. Folding shut with the sound of breaking bone, not that anyone heard it.

A swarm of shuttles, sharp-edged with silver and bronze, flocked to meet the still-frozen prize. 

Then, and only then, did the field collapse. 

The passengers on the shuttles carried clearance codes that parted hangar doors for them without qualm or protest, and lithe, armoured figures dispersed throughout the ships corridors with the grace and intent of hunting hounds.

A ping from a friendly armour IFF crossed Constantine’s systems.   
He would later be ashamed that it took him a full second to recognise it, and what it meant.

But what did that matter, truly? They were out of the Warp. And if  _ they _ were here, then…

“My thanks for the welcoming committee, Sisters.” He smiled as he broadcast on an open vox channel. “Charys, do you copy? We’re home.”

“_Oh, thank the Motive Force,_” Charys groaned. “_Is that the Sisters of Silence I’m reading? If you could come up to the Bridge first; the Navigator went insane and gave himself over. As did the Astropaths. The Captain is alive, and mostly intact, but the rest of the Bridge crew were slaughtered. Captain-General, is the Primarch…?_” The question trailed off.

Constantine looked down at the child tucked close to his chest, where he was held in preparation of Constantine having to fight and flee in defense. Horus himself was unaware that the danger had passed, still looking around warily as his defender communicated with other parties.

“A little alarmed, but safe,” Constantin reassured Charys.

“_#Captain-General. Greetings. This is Oblivion Knight Marellia Krole. We are proceeding to Bridge. Please make your way to Secondary West Hangar. You will be escorted.#_” The machine-read Orskode voxed.

“Knight Krole, this is Constantine Valdor. Request acknowledged.” 

His nerves finally set at ease, he returned his focus to his charge. “Child. We are safe.” His armour’s cogitator translated his words, though it was more of a supplement than a crutch by this point; the Primarch was an exceptional learner. “We are home.”

Worried, dark eyes, looked up at him, fixing their gaze unerringly on the lenses of his helm. Constantine stroked fluffy black hair reassuringly. “Your Father is waiting.”

(oOo)

“Please, my lord, you should rest,” Ra urged. Only to be answered by the shake of a head and the consequential wince of pain.

“I can walk, Ra. I’m exhausted, not an invalid.”

Gently squeezing his lord’s arm in reassurance, Ra tried again to dissuade him. “Forgive me, my lord, I am not trying to postpone you meeting your son. I am merely saying that you should not exert yourself.”

The Emperor leaned a little more heavily on Ra as his steps faltered and slowed. Ra stopped in turn, free hand hovering, half-raised, ready to support his lord’s full weight should the need arise. 

There was merely the hoarse clearing of a throat, accompanied by the small  _ plat _ of a drop of blood falling to the floor. He dabbed his nose morosely, only for his hand to come away with a trickle of red. With the flick of his fingers, the blood vanished in a blink of light.

“I may have...pushed myself a little harder than I meant to, I suppose. But I am recovering as we speak.”

“I’ll trust your judgement then, my lord,” Ra conceded in a low voice. If the man wanted to drive himself into unconsciousness for the second time that day, despite much convincing, that was his prerogative. At least Ra could tell Constantine that he’d tried, repeatedly, to stop him. Not that that would stop Constantine from thrashing him in the sparring room at the first opportunity, but that was par for the course anyway.

A sharp gust of air greeted them as the bulkhead to the shuttle pad opened, the high altitude whipped into a biting chill by the landing of a silver-chased Stormbird. Kicking up a flurry of snow and cloud vapour, the engines roared before whining to a stop. With a wheeze of servos, the ramp lowered, revealing Constantine cradling a grey, child-sized figure to his breastplate.

Ra heard his lord inhale sharply; an odd, stuttering sound thick with emotion. But then it was gone, and Constantine was fast approaching. And, ah...the child had moved? From Constantine’s arms to...oh. Beneath his helmet, Ra pursed his lips in an attempt to quash a smile. From the offended glance he received, evidently he had not succeeded in doing the same for his body language.

To his side, his lord stepped forward tentatively, eyes locked on the Primarch.

Constantine halted. From the wolfskin about his neck a slight figure sat clad in metal plates and tattered cloth, slowly dawning realization on the face like that of a man remembering a dream of yesternight.

"My lord," Constantine spoke softly. "Might I present to you, Primarch Horus. Your son. Child, The Emperor of Mankind. Your father.”

All of Ra’s experience with children dictated that the Primarch would be shy, clinging to Constantine as a familiar figure. But no. Instead, he clambered deftly down, and Ra could only treasure Constantine’s long-suffering expression at being used in such a manner.

Their lord watched with a similarly amused expression, though whether at the Captain-General’s plight or the fearlessness of his son, or both, Ra could not tell. And he did not have much time to dwell upon it, as Horus marched the few steps towards them with all the solemn dignity of an autocrat and stopped at their feet, staring up at his father with a self-assured curiosity.

Now the two were in close proximity, Ra could pick out how much they looked alike, and yet so subtly different. There was no doubt they were father and son, though for the two in question, the recognition seemed to pass beyond the physical. Maybe in the same way that the Custodes could never mistake their lord for anything but. Probably stronger, given that the Primarchs shared blood with him directly and had been crafted from cell clusters up.

“You...I remember.”

Well, it was nice to have that hypothesis confirmed.

"Do you?"

The small face scrunched up in frustration. "I remember...no, not see, but  _ see _ light? Not touch, but... _ know _ touch? Like...warm?"

"Like this?" Kneeling, The Emperor held out his cupped hands, an orb of light flickering to life within them. Horus stared in awe, spellbound by the glimpse of his father's psychic presence.

Ra noticed Constantine staring too. Also transfixed, though with a glimmer of worry in his eyes.

And then Horus stuck his hand in the light.

Both Custodes being emphatically aware of how destructive and burning their lord’s power could be, even to those closest to him, put out their hands to drag the two apart. Realising just before they could actually do so, that neither were showing any signs of alarm, or pain.

Instead, their lord was frowning down at his son and the smaller hands clasped within his own, the light of his power fading out.

“Horus, that was dangerous. You might have been hurt.” He scolded, tone laden with worry. 

“‘S’okay, I known I wouldn’t. You wouldn’t let it.” Guileless dark eyes looking up and shining with utmost confidence, body language open and respectful but not cowed in the slightest. “You’re my father.”

Another pair of dark eyes, these ones ringed with light, creased oddly at the corners and the muscles in the jaw worked oddly for a second before words emerged. Hoarse, and delicate.   
“Yeah. I am.”

Strong hands pulled Horus into a full-body embrace, holding to the crook of his shoulder the child he had lost. Horus himself returned it as best as he could, digging clawed, dirt-grained fingers into the finely-woven cloth of his father’s court attire as though the man might disappear into smoke if he didn’t hold on tight.

Long heartbeats passed, and The Emperor lifted his gaze to find Constantine waiting patiently and ever-vigilant. A slight repositioning of the arms, and he stood, Horus still clutched to him.   
“Constantine.” A smile. Of relief, of gratitude untold. “Welcome home, my friend.”

A replying, cursory nod. “Good to be home, my lord, thanks in no small part to yourself, of course. Ra.”

Ra returned the acknowledgement with a nod of his own, suddenly registering with a horrible, sinking feeling in his gut that Constantine’s expression was narrowing as he took in how Ra was delicately supporting their liege lord, and the man’s rather haggard pallor.

“Anything I need to know about?” Constantine’s face was practically screaming the desire to order their lord to rest for the next twenty-four hours, or Malcador’s help in accomplishing it would be acquired.

“I seized an opportunity.” Their lord cut straight to the heart of the matter. “While I pulled your ship from that pit of Time, I twisted it, used it to See, pierced Their veils with no little effort. But it was worth it.” He splayed his hand comfortingly across Horus’ back, who even now was engrossed by the sight of Charys and the Sisters of Silence disembarking from the shuttle. 

“What did you see?” Constantine’s curiosity was piqued, as was Ra’s.

“Falling stars. Some of them, at least. And where they landed.”


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You thought I forgot about the Astartes, didn't you?

There was no set protocol for this sort of thing. But, it was the sort of thing the whole company had to know about and, coming from Constantine Valdor himself, that it deserved a certain level of gravitas went unsaid.

Henceforth, nearly every Astartes available was packed into one of the training halls, in parade formation. And those that weren't, for one reason or another, would have the pict-feed relayed via hololith or servitor.

The other, more relevant exceptions were Markis and Jan.

They stood out in front, clearly apprehensive despite a carefully cultivated stoicism.

"Brothers!" Captain Dure began, silencing the vox-clicks and murmurs. “The Primarch of the Sixteenth Legion has been found. Even now, the Captain-General of the Custodes himself, bears him to Terra.” A few muted cheers were forestalled by the raising of a hand.   
“Given the utmost priority of his mission, I will be issuing these orders in his stead. Sergeant Valk Markis, Tactical Marine Forstinn Jan; you stand before this assembly, to be judged.”

The words, buoyed by vox-casters bourne by slowly circling servo-skulls, echoed off the high ceiling and gantry-ways.

Amidst the faint reverberations, the two Astartes in question knelt.

“You have pleaded guilty to the charge of maiming an Imperial officer of high rank, that of Primarch. Now, with the authority of the Custodes bestowed upon these proceedings, I now pronounce sentence.”

Anticipation oozed almost tangibly through the air.

“Demotion.”

Anticipation was replaced by a ripple of confusion, even as Captain Dure motioned a gaggle of Company Serfs forward and began to explain.

“You will relinquish your Power Armour and weaponry, and you will assume the rank of Scout.” With a wave of prompting, the serfs began stripping Markis and Jan of their armour.   
“Your record of service, though remaining on archive, shall count as for nothing; you will be treated as mere Scouts, regardless of your previous renown. You shall remain Scouts for a minimum of thirty years, after which you will be granted a status as that of a newly-appointed Astartes; your previous acclamations will not be returned.”

Dure could feel the silent horror from the other Astartes under his command. They had all sweated, bled for their accomplishments and carried them with pride. Aside from a few personal mementos and their chosen weaponry, their deeds were all that they could truly claim to own; that defined who they were. To have that stripped from them and reduced to...It was tantamount to being crippled.

Then again, physical punishment would have been the sentence, if not for the mercy, no, the fairness shown by Lord Valdor.

Maybe a few words of reassurance were in order, though?

"Neither will your shames be returned; including this one.

You have been gifted a blank slate. Use it well.”

Markis and Jan's expressions lifted a little, but not by much.

  
  


(oOo)

With a gasp of air, Sevis returned to consciousness and was greeted by the sour counterseptic smell that every Apothecarium seemed to possess. A rubber hose had been jammed between his teeth and down his throat, to deliver a constant anaesthetic and stop him choking, but that was removed by a familiar gauntlet that pulled it from his trachea in one swift movement.

“Welcome back,” Apothecary Simar spoke, laying the length of piping to one side. “You are aboard the Wind Strider in orbit above Cthonia. The mission is over. All members of Recon Squad 4 are accounted for. You are ready to return to active service. Your armour is currently undergoing extensive repair. Any further questions?”

Sevis pulled himself upright and off the slab, flexing the stiffness from his shoulders and feeling the slight ache in his chest. That would be gone soon, but he’d have a rather large scar. “How long was I out?”

“Nineteen hours. Protective scar tissue had already formed around the fragments embedded in your body and had to be completely excised. One was lodged next to your primary heart and the scarring was impeding the movement of one of the chambers. Care was needed. Also, the impalement damaged one of the connectors of your Black Carapace; further incisions were made to effect repairs.”

Sevis took the robe Simar was holding out and shrugged it on, belting it around himself. Judging by the shredded pile of black fabric in the blood-smeared waste bin, he'd have to pick up a new bodyglove from the Quartermaster on his way back to his quarters. "My thanks. Oh, did the rest of you manage to track down the bastard that took me out?"

Simar went oddly stiff. "Ehh…'"

"What; what did I miss?"


	10. Extract of Imperial Literature

_ Excerpt from  _ Per Aspera Ad Astra: An Overview of the Reclamation of Sol _ by _ Lucretia Volund _ , published 895M30 and regarded as a Schola staple across the Imperium by M31. Generations of the enmity of students and their essays would earn it the somewhat unflattering shorthand of PA3:Sol. _

‘The orders for the Crusade were to take a sharp turn after Primarch Horus Lupercal was discovered and reunited with The Emperor on Terra.   
Without any explanation at the time, save to his closest council and the Fabricator-General of Mars, The Emperor would establish the Rarus(Scattered) Fleet. Even as the Forges and Iron Ring of Mars and the newly liberated Jovian shipyards of Jupiter plied their technotheology to create glorious vessels for the Great Crusade proper, a number of smaller, swifter ships would be set aside and outfitted differently.   
The end result was the Rarus Fleet, twenty Warp-capable ships that would follow and expand upon the trails of the Pioneer Fleets of the Fifth Legiones Astartes. The purpose of this would be to search out the rest of the Primarchs, retrieving them if possible.

It is not known why a measure such as the Rarus Fleet had not been employed earlier, as soon as the Treaty of Mars had been signed and access to Warp-capable vessels assured with the blessing of the Machine God had been granted.    
Some claim that The Emperor truly believed the Primarchs lost forever, but that the finding of one gave Him hope for the others.    
A large number speculate that The Emperor could only divine the whereabouts of His other sons with the aid of the presence of Primarch Horus Lupercal, a theory which has since given birth to the Reconstitutionalist Movement. That, however, is a matter best left to another work.

There are a few radical outliers that propose that The Scattering was enacted by The Emperor Himself, to determine which Primarchs were worthy of ushering in a new age, in some sort of ‘survival of the fittest’ scenario. That the Rarus Fleet was merely collecting those Primarchs deemed suitable from where The Emperor had known where they were all along.

Ultimately, until His Majesty deigns to reveal the truth of the matter, these theories will remain just that.

The truth of the matter does remain, however, that ten years after the arrival of Primarch Horus, the Rarus Fleet was anointed and launched under the oversight of (Commodore) Lavinius Regalian of the Legio Custodes.

Six months later, the ship _The Old Chariot_ would discover the Deathworld of Fenris…’

(oOo)

_ Excerpt from  _ Depictions of The Primarchs and Other Personages in Art _ , by  _ Denni Diterot _ . _

‘The grand majority of depictions are of the Primarch as a young man just coming into his prime, typically with one armoured foot planted atop a fallen foe or a spur of rock, power sword held loose but ever ready in one hand. Upon worlds where Compliance was bought with diplomacy, the sword may hang from his hip, a sealed scroll or other local symbol of peace and wisdom in hand. In symbolically-inclined paintings and stained-glass, the Primarch’s home planet of Cthonia hangs behind the right shoulder, Although, some artisans will depict Terra instead; claiming that while Horus Lupercal was found on Cthonia, he was raised on Terra itself.

Examples are the painting  _ Anointing of A Wolf _ by Jin van Eick and the stain-glass windows of the Hall of Lords upon Saros Station of Jupiter, commissioned from then little-known artisan Lou Tiffani.

_ (Image: Within a light, airy chamber, Primarch Horus kneels in only a loose grey robe, and breastplate and pauldrons. A grey wolfskin is belted to him, the head on his shoulder. The Emperor, in courtly attire, lowers a golden circlet upon the Primarchs head. Custodian Constantin Valdor stands just behind the Emperor, holding a power sword ready to give to Horus. Through the arched windows, the planet of Cthonia hangs in the void, flanked by a fleet of ships, one larger than the others.) _

_ (Image: Rendered in stained-glass, Primarch Horus stands in profile, in full armour. Power sword held before him in a loose crusader’s grip. The head of a dark gray wolfskin snarls across one pauldron, a golden crescent moon in it’s jaw. A fleet of ships streak from a warp rift through the amber sky behind them, Terra hangs as a golden circle, a white nimbus of the Astronomicon upon its side.) _   
  


Of course, the wolfskin is a consistent feature, though the colour of such and how it is worn tends to vary. Usually, when the Primarch is shown in armour, it lies mantled across his shoulders. If engaged in diplomacy or scholarly pursuits, especially when without or only partial armour, it is draped over one shoulder and cinched to the waist with a belt.   
Likewise, the colour tends to correspond. A range of greys for martial might, and pale grey or white for peace and knowledge.

As the first Primarch to be found, and at a tender age, there are rumoured to be a few depictions of the Primarch’s formative years taken from life, rather than second hand accounts as is common for the other Primarchs. These, however, are ensconced within the Imperial Palace on a permanent basis and no copies entered into circulation.

What is more common, are images of the Primarchs together, both before and after they were given charge of their Legions.

Some of you may be familiar with famous images such as  _ The Palace Garden _ ,  _ A View of Tizca/City of Light _ and  _ Blood Brothers _ , to name but a few.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There. Horus is done.
> 
> The other Primarchs are going to be found in a different order, and in a lot earlier timeframe, than canon.
> 
> Leman Russ is up next.


End file.
